


lonely again

by umplsstop



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, Red String of Fate, USUK - Freeform, but can be seen as platonic - Freeform, can be seen as franada, i guess, i'm sorry france i love u bby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-24 11:09:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17099474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umplsstop/pseuds/umplsstop
Summary: France could see the red string of fate. Most people had a string, including countries however most of the times the string thins and breaks.Too bad whenever France looked down his finger wasn't decorated with a pretty red string. However, he knew two countries who did. He wanted that love.





	lonely again

A couple walked down the streets of Paris, hands intertwined as the moon and street lamps illuminated a path for them. 

Not too far was the country of love, sitting on a bench as the chill breeze ruffled his blond hair. He leaned back, watching his citizens walk about just as alive as they were in day. 

Pushing a stroller, a woman began walking down the path. Then, a man hurried up behind her with a toddler squirming around in his arms. He set her down, the woman giving the man a small smile before he gave her a small squeeze . 

France's gaze fell down towards their hands. A thick, red string tied the two together. France couldn't help but let a small smile tug at his lips. He reached over to the rose bush beside him, plucking a rose with a gloved hand. He twisted the vermilion rose, then looked back up to see the couple's figures slowly fading as they made their way down. 

He set the rose down beside him, giving his hand a small glance: no string tied around his hand. His hand was bare, without any string whatsoever. Grimly, he smiled and flexed his hand. France leaned forward, resting his head in the palm of his hand as he watched people pass him. Couples and kids who's strings stretched far away, even a couple people without strings or dating somebody with another string. France's heart squeezed; he was happy for his beloved citizens.

France pursed his lips then stood up, staring up at the moon then fixing his gloves.

Tomorrow, he had a meeting to attend.

 

The next morning France waltzed in with a burgundy three piece suit and a rose tucked in the pocket feeling ready to go until he saw something particularly interesting: America was sitting in his chair (which wasn't too odd, he was usually punctual) with a red string tied around his finger. It was thin and very delicate looking, but it was new nonetheless. 

France gaped at the American, who was scrolling through his phone in a beige suit with the tie left untied until somebody (England) fussed over it and tied it for him. France watched the man sip at his coffee, glance at the door, then glance at his phone and the cycle would continue.

A pang of envy hit France's heart. Nations could get the string as well, however it wasn't nearly as common and it usually broke after a couple months at the most. France sighed, shook his head, then smiled at the string that led through the entrance doors. He was in love with the idea of love and that was good enough for him. 

France ran his hand along the clean, polished table and stopped beside America. America eyed his hand, then looked up. "Hey France," he greeted. "What's up?"

France eyed America's hand a bit more before rubbing at the scruff on his chin with a small, warm grin. "Nothing, dear America," He sat down next to him. "How are you?"

America sat down his coffee with a shrug, but France saw something different in the man. He had something shine in his eyes that wasn't there before. America looked towards the door again, then back. "I'm good, dude." 

Before France could prompt the boy further, the doors swung open again with England marching in. He wore a black suit with white gloves and looked spiffier than usual. France then stared harder at the gloves and saw a red string tied around it. He saw the string lead to...to..America?!

Without any control of himself, France began hacking and coughing violently. America and England! He couldn't say he never thought of the two together but to see the string unite them both? France rubbed at his face, seeing America look at him with a bewildered look and England coming toward them. France darted out of his chair to give England a place to sit and opted for a spot across the meeting room.

As he made his way around, he couldn't help but feel almost upset. Why hadn't he been informed of this...Crush? Was it a crush? What began this? France leaned back in his chair, tracing the edge of the desk with his finger as he pondered. How could England, and America, find somebody before him?

Perhaps it was a curse. Perhaps it wasn't just the burden he had to carry as the price of knowing every soulmate. Perhaps, just perhaps, France was unloveable?

France frowned to himself and found it difficult to focus for the rest of the meeting. He pinched his thigh, then clenched his palms. No, he shouldn't feel sorry for himself. He had a couple to push until that string strengthen, no matter how much France burned with envy to have that little string tied around his finger. 

Just once, even for a moment. 

 

For the next couple of nights, it seemed England and America didn't need any push. France noticed the sly glances and subtle touches of the beginnings of love and how they came to the meeting together. They even left together! It seemed they didn't even need his help and did it all by themselves, which frankly, surprised France. England was stubborn and America was an oblivious idiot! 

France scurried out of the meeting, spotting how their string became thicker and stronger. He ran out of the building, out to his beautiful streets and walked. He stared at the streets he lived and grown and thrived and even died in. Where he witnessed love and where he witnessed hate and where he witnessed everything in between.

Out of the corner of his eye, France saw a girl sitting on a bench all alone, just staring out into the distance. France eyed her for a moment, noticing an empty look in her eyes then down to her hand. There was a wedding band but missing the important part: a bright red string. 

France's stomach did somersaults as he slowly approached her. She looked up at him, doe eyes wide and stinging with tears. She wasn't ugly at all, no. Everybody in France's eyes was beautiful, just in different ways. Even England and his ugly, untamable eyebrows. 

France knelt down to be eye level with the woman. " _Bonjour, mon cher,"_ he murmured. The woman flushed. "What is the matter?"

The woman immediately began scrubbing at her face, causing her mascara to create even more of a melting-panda effect. "Nothing! Nothing!" She waved him off. "Nothing to concern yourself with."

France tilted his head, frowning. "A lady as pretty as you shouldn't be this upset," he said. He then gave her a pearly-white, heart-warming grin and pulled the rose out of the pocket of his shirt and handed it to her. 

She took it, staring at the rose in disbelief. Her cheeks got pinker as she stared at it and twiddled it between her thumbs as if she'd never seen a rose before. "Why?"

France stood up. "Because everybody deserves a bit of love in their life, yes?" 

Before the woman could say anymore, France whirled around and skipped off. France walked a couple more feet before he ran into somebody tall and hard. He looked up, spewing an apology before he saw a familiar face: Canada.

"Oh! Canada!" gasped France. "Surprised you haven't taken a flight home yet, the meeting ended today, dear!"

Canada sheepishly pulled his hands from behind his back and offered a rose up to France. "I didn't want to go home," he murmured, burning face looking at his feet. "Here."

France blinked at the vermilion rose in disbelief. "For...Me?"

Canda thrusted it into France's chest. "Yes!"

France slowly reached up and took it, giving the rose the same look as the woman had. "Really?" he whispered.

"Of course."

Before France knew it, hot, salty tears began dripping down his face and he let out a loud child-like laugh. "Oh!" he gripped the rose tighter like if he loosened his grip the rose would fly out of his grasp. " _Merci! Merci beaucoup!_ Thank you, Canada!"

Perhaps France did deserve love, and perhaps he deserved to receive instead of giving for once. 


End file.
